


Candlelight

by childrenofgiants



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Blackouts, Candles, F/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, Shameless Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 06:46:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5280758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/childrenofgiants/pseuds/childrenofgiants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A blackout in the middle of the summer is a perfectly good reason to strip and bang your neighbor on the counter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Candlelight

His mama teaches him lots of things.

How to take a person out on a date. How to hold the door open and offer to pay for a meal (even if they have already signed on for paying for half). How to walk a person home, stay rooted on the porch and expect nothing more than a handshake or a kiss on the cheek. His mama taught him lots of things, but not this. Never this. She never warned him about girls like Mikasa Ackerman, made of porcelain and steel, forged with cracks and scars. He does not know the rules when they are two hours into the citywide blackout and she is peering up at him through her lashes, with candlelight in her eyes and shadows playing with her features.  

“You’re staring,” she murmurs in the quiet of their conversation, shifting her gaze between the candlestick within her palms and his face. The summer heat sticks to his cheeks, makes him conscious of the way they flare up when his eyes drop to avoid her stare and instead, catch sight of the way her t-shirt clings to her torso. Jean clenches his jaw and fiddles with his hands, anything really to take his mind off the thought of Mikasa peeling her shirt off because he knows better. He knows better.

“You are too,” he notes, when he finds the will to reply. Jean thinks the candlelight paints colors where they don’t belong because he swears he thinks he sees Mikasa’s cheeks tint pink under the canopy of darkness in his kitchen. He takes a chance, moves in another inch so the heat thickens between them when his hand grazes hers and he gently coaxes the candle out of her fingers. The flame flickers when he sets it on the counter and still, he can feel her eyes on him, calculating every movement like predator on prey.

The rules of the game are thrown away when Mikasa’s teeth sink into her lower lip. He’s willing to learn, though. For her, he’s willing to do anything.

Jean rests his palms against the counter, leaning his weight against it, stretching here and there when he assures her, “You can stare if you want.”

He catches her this time. Looking, that is–the way her eyes latch onto the way he twists and turns, the way she slinks over to him, settling her hands on either side of his waist. Mikasa Ackerman knows of angles and precision, knows the way her knee is positioned right between his legs. She can deduct the space between them and the time it will take to close it; feel the feverish heat emanating from his skin when she tips her chin and leans in.

She could kiss him. They both know it. He can’t even hide it, the way his eyes sway down towards the curve of her mouth. Jean could press his hands to the small of her back and pull her into him, flush against his chest. Get her to moan into his mouth, but his mama taught him more than that. Taught him to wait and read signs and situations like pages in books, ask questions if he’s unclear, never take advantage, never jump to conclusions.

It feels like daybreak when Mikasa finally speaks. “I want to,” she says, glancing at him again through the fringe of her lashes, and he swears it feels as though his heart rips in two. Jean shifts slightly, thinking about cradling the back of her neck, about admitting how much and how long he’s been meaning to do this when she adds, “I’d like to stare at you.”

And there they are: Rules, conventions, manners of speech. He tries not to let the disappointment surface on his face, tries to regard her as simply his next door neighbor needing company in the dark, tries to not focus on the way he can practically feel everything and yet not enough about her at this distance. Mikasa bows her head, allowing her nose to brush along his jaw, and tenderness flickers like the light in the room as she murmurs, “I think I’d like to kiss you, too. If that’s all right.”

Jean’s heart stills, his chest bleeding with heat as he drags his finger up the curve of her throat and finds rest at her chin, pulling her gaze up to meet his. “Do it,” he says, and it is every bit of a challenge as it is a plea. He thinks the heat reaches down and touches his toes; that was too rash, too unlike him and the words still sear his tongue when she touches her lips to his.

Kissing Mikasa Ackerman is like holding his palm above a flame: Warm with the threat of something, as the surface of her lips slide against his own so gently that he barely feels the faintest imprint of scars. It is like a feather, like the slightest gust of a mid-summer breeze and she pulls back before he has a chance to learn how to breathe again, shaking his head. No, not like this. Jean can barely make out the lines of her frown as Mikasa rests back on her heels and parts her lips.

“That’s not a kiss,” he exclaims, his hands finding their way to either side of her face, his words blending into one another in a single breath. “This is.”

Jean kisses like he intends to burn and leave the evidence marked along her skin. His mouth is on hers, his fingers careful along her cheeks, and it is warm like the sweat that trickles down the small of her back, warm like his tongue pushing and prying her lips open, warm like the flat of his chest flush against her own. Mikasa bends into him like darkness around the light, feels his breath, ragged and broken tear past his lips with every push and pull. He knows the moment every rule snaps when his hands stray, when she gasps with every intentional touch as they rest on the backs of her thighs. Jean picks her up before she has time to spare to the thought of muscle mass or balance, turning and setting her down on the counter where the candlelight drapes them both and her legs unfold willingly.

He slows, and remembers what it’s like to kiss a girl. He remembers what it’s like to brush his tongue against the roof of her mouth. He remembers what it’s like move away as she pushes forward, how to grasp her lower lip with his teeth to draw out the most delicate sigh. He forgets that he is kissing Mikasa Ackerman and that her ankles are locked and insistent on the backs of his knees and how she sends him tripping into her. How her hands forge paths in his hair, how she leans back and moans his name instead of taking air as he bites and sucks on the inside of her neck.

“Mikasa,” he groans, lining his hips against hers, feeling her legs secure him to her. Jean feels the shudder that courses up the length of her spine and the tension throughout her body, pulse beating beneath his fingertips. He touches the equivalent of art and the sword: the sharp arch of her shoulders, and the bow in her back and her skin, smooth and slick under his touch. Mikasa fidgets in his grasp, nudging against him until he picks her up and stumbles about in the dark. Her lips are on his forehead, his cheeks, his jaw, whatever she can find in her shortness of sight as Jean trips his way towards his squeaky, rickety couch and sets her down like he would a lover with his hand cradling her back to break her fall.

He is the one to take his time. To make love. To savor the taste. His mama teaches him respect, so when he hovers over Mikasa with his forehead against hers he waits. He waits and she knows why, and for the slightest moment it makes her heart weak and her ribs fold, but right now she is not looking for love, or gestures, or rules.

She knows he keeps condoms in his wallet.

Mikasa feels him jump when her fingers sneak into the back pocket, her nails sifting through the different folds until she catches the wrapper and tugs it into view. There is enough light that he can take a hint, and the condom momentarily falls between them in the tangle of Jean’s hands beneath her shirt.

“I want you,” she sighs when she sees the question still lingering in his eyes, and his palms still skirt around her stomach. Mikasa takes his wrist and pushes it all the way up towards her chest, and when his fingers press down and squeeze, she moans, “I want you to fuck me.”

That’s all the permission Jean needs to print the first hickey along her shoulder. He pushes the hem of her shirt over her chest, face flickering for a moment before he grins and folds both hands over her bra once more.

“This is the one you dropped when our laundry was mixed up,” Jean states against the impending smile on her lips. He traces his thumbs along the lace trim and the stitched designs. Jean dips his chin and presses his lips between her breasts to let her know how much he likes it. His fingers hook behind her back towards the strap to let her know how much he’d like to take it off, and Mikasa obliges when he can’t quite get the clasps right.

He talks a lot. He knows how to use his tongue when he takes the tip of her breast into his mouth and draws circles around tender flesh. Mikasa gives him sighs and soft moans in exchange, curving into his mouth. Jean’s teeth graze against her skin and his name echoes off of the thin, apartment walls. Mikasa taunts him after every pant, edging him, pushing every button she knows of. He can do better. She thought he was going to make her scream. He can do better than that as Jean ducks his head, keeping count of the line of kisses he leaves down her stomach. He can do better when he spreads her thighs with his palm and takes her in for a second before his lips meet the soft skin on the inside of her leg. Not too close, that’s what she gets for talking too much, as Mikasa bucks her hips up into thin air as his lips are there, but not there at all.

Mikasa only deserves the tip of his tongue against her underwear, pushing between the folds.

Jean takes his time with one, languid lick.

She is writhing by the time he finds it necessary to push the cotton aside, nails biting at the couch cushion looking for something to hold. His hair is a fine substitute and Mikasa pulls and yanks when he drags his mouth away, when he moves too slowly, when he grazes her clit over and over again–a reprimand, a praise and a blessing all in one.  

Mikasa comes with her legs shaking and his name trapped in her throat. Jean resurfaces, biting his lip and passing the back of his hand over his chin, his other hand flat against her hip when she tries to sit up.

“What makes you think I’m done with you?” Jean asks, and it’s not a question that needs a reply as he pushes his jeans off and onto the floor. There are no rules of decency with Mikasa’s legs wide, and Jean’s erection painfully obvious behind his boxers as he helps her out of her shirt and she does the same for him. Mikasa’s fingers waltz along the bare skin of chest, lower and lower until she’s memorizing the dips in his hips and the outline of his cock against the fabric.

Jean stops her with his hand wrapped around her own.

“I didn’t give you permission to touch.”

She likes him like this with his boxers down to his knees and his length sliding up and down her stomach, with his lips against her ear. He could have her here. On her hands and knees. Pull her hair. Make her scream so loud, the neighbors downstairs will be having a cigarette afterwards.

But that’s just him. She should tell him what she wants. Look him in the eye when she does. Mikasa bites her lip for good measure to see sparks kindle in his eyes and whispers that she wants him to fuck her. Feel him inside of her. Make her forget how it feels to walk. Moan in her ear, pull on her hair, touch her. She wants him to touch her.

He tells her to get on her hands and knees while he rummages for lube in his dresser drawer.

She surprises him on all fours, with a hand between her legs, two fingers inside of herself. He helps to ease her fingers out, murmuring “Good girl,” as they glisten in candlelight.

Jean reverts for a second, thinks that they are making love when applies lube gingerly, when he rolls the condom on himself. His mama teaches him lots of things. How to take a person out on a date. How to hold the door open and offer to pay for a meal (even if they have already signed on for paying for half). How to walk a person home, stay rooted on the porch and expect nothing more than a handshake or a kiss on the cheek. His mama taught him lots of things, but not this. Never this. She never warned him about girls like Mikasa Ackerman, made of porcelain and steel, forged with cracks and scars. He does not know the rules when they are two hours into the citywide blackout and she is peering up at him through her lashes, with candlelight in her eyes and shadows playing with her features.  

“You’re staring,” she murmurs in the quiet of their conversation, shifting her gaze between the candlestick within her palms and his face. The summer heat sticks to his cheeks, makes him conscious of the way they flare up when his eyes drop to avoid her stare and instead, catch sight of the way her t-shirt clings to her torso. Jean clenches his jaw and fiddles with his hands, anything really to take his mind off the thought of Mikasa peeling her shirt off because he knows better. He knows better.

“You are too,” he notes, when he finds the will to reply. Jean thinks the candlelight paints colors where they don’t belong because he swears he thinks he sees Mikasa’s cheeks tint pink under the canopy of darkness in his kitchen. He takes a chance, moves in another inch so the heat thickens between them when his hand grazes hers and he gently coaxes the candle out of her fingers. The flame flickers when he sets it on the counter and still, he can feel her eyes on him, calculating every movement like predator on prey.

The rules of the game are thrown away when Mikasa’s teeth sink into her lower lip. He’s willing to learn, though. For her, he’s willing to do anything.

Jean rests his palms against the counter, leaning his weight against it, stretching here and there when he assures her, “You can stare if you want.”

He catches her this time. Looking, that is–the way her eyes latch onto the way he twists and turns, the way she slinks over to him, settling her hands on either side of his waist. Mikasa Ackerman knows of angles and precision, knows the way her knee is positioned right between his legs. She can deduct the space between them and the time it will take to close it; feel the feverish heat emanating from his skin when she tips her chin and leans in.

She could kiss him. They both know it. He can’t even hide it, the way his eyes sway down towards the curve of her mouth. Jean could press his hands to the small of her back and pull her into him, flush against his chest. Get her to moan into his mouth, but his mama taught him more than that. Taught him to wait and read signs and situations like pages in books, ask questions if he’s unclear, never take advantage, never jump to conclusions.

It feels like daybreak when Mikasa finally speaks. “I want to,” she says, glancing at him again through the fringe of her lashes, and he swears it feels as though his heart rips in two. Jean shifts slightly, thinking about cradling the back of her neck, about admitting how much and how long he’s been meaning to do this when she adds, “I’d like to stare at you.”

And there they are: Rules, conventions, manners of speech. He tries not to let the disappointment surface on his face, tries to regard her as simply his next door neighbor needing company in the dark, tries to not focus on the way he can practically feel everything and yet not enough about her at this distance. Mikasa bows her head, allowing her nose to brush along his jaw, and tenderness flickers like the light in the room as she murmurs, “I think I’d like to kiss you, too. If that’s all right.”

Jean’s heart stills, his chest bleeding with heat as he drags his finger up the curve of her throat and finds rest at her chin, pulling her gaze up to meet his. “Do it,” he says, and it is every bit of a challenge as it is a plea. He thinks the heat reaches down and touches his toes; that was too rash, too unlike him and the words still sear his tongue when she touches her lips to his.

Kissing Mikasa Ackerman is like holding his palm above a flame: Warm with the threat of something, as the surface of her lips slide against his own so gently that he barely feels the faintest imprint of scars. It is like a feather, like the slightest gust of a mid-summer breeze and she pulls back before he has a chance to learn how to breathe again, shaking his head. No. Not like this. Jean can barely make out the lines of her frown as Mikasa rests back on her heels and parts her lips.

“That’s not a kiss,” he exclaims, his hands finding their way to either side of her face, his words blending into one another in a single breath. “This is.”

Jean kisses like he intends to burn and leave the evidence marked along her skin. His mouth is on hers, his fingers careful along her cheeks, and it is warm like the sweat that trickles down the small of her back, warm like his tongue pushing and prying her lips open, warm like the flat of his chest flush against her own. Mikasa bends into him like darkness around the light, feels his breath, ragged and broken tear past his lips with every push and pull. He knows the moment every rule snaps when his hands stray, when she gasps with every intentional touch as they rest on the backs of her thighs. Jean picks her up before she has time to spare to the thought of muscle mass or balance, turning and setting her down on the counter where the candlelight drapes them both and her legs unfold willingly.

He slows, and remembers what it’s like to kiss a girl. He remembers what it’s like to brush his tongue against the roof of her mouth. He remembers what it’s like move away as she pushes forward, how to grasp her lower lip with his teeth to draw out the most delicate sigh. He forgets that he is kissing Mikasa Ackerman and that her ankles are locked and insistent on the backs of his knees and how she sends him tripping into her. How her hands forge paths in his hair, how she leans back and moans his name instead of taking air as he bites and sucks on the inside of her neck.

“Mikasa,” he groans, lining his hips against hers, feeling her legs secure him to her. Jean feels the shudder that courses up the length of her spine and the tension throughout her body, pulse beating beneath his fingertips. He touches the equivalent of art and the sword: the sharp arch of her shoulders, and the bow in her back and her skin, smooth and slick under his touch. Mikasa fidgets in his grasp, nudging against him until he picks her up and stumbles about in the dark. Her lips are on his forehead, his cheeks, his jaw, whatever she can find in her shortness of sight as Jean trips his way towards his squeaky, rickety couch and sets her down like he would a lover with his hand cradling her back to break her fall.

He is the one to take his time. To make love. To savor the taste. His mama teaches him respect, so when he hovers over Mikasa with his forehead against hers he waits. He waits and she knows why, and for the slightest moment it makes her heart weak and her ribs fold, but right now she is not looking for love, or gestures, or rules.

She knows he keeps condoms in his wallet.

Mikasa feels him jump when her fingers sneak into the back pocket, her nails sifting through the different folds until she catches the wrapper and tugs it into view. There is enough light that he can take a hint, and the condom momentarily falls between them in the tangle of Jean’s hands beneath her shirt.

“I want you,” she sighs when she sees the question still lingering in his eyes, and his palms still skirt around her stomach. Mikasa takes his wrist and pushes it all the way up towards her chest, and when his fingers press down and squeeze, she moans, “I want you to fuck me.”

That’s all the permission Jean needs to print the first hickey along her shoulder. He pushes the hem of her shirt over her chest, face flickering for a moment before he grins and folds both hands over her bra once more.

“This is the one you dropped when our laundry was mixed up,” Jean states against the impending smile on her lips. He traces his thumbs along the lace trim and the stitched designs. Jean dips his chin and presses his lips between her breasts to let her know how much he likes it. His fingers hook behind her back towards the strap to let her know how much he’d like to take it off, and Mikasa obliges when he can’t quite get the clasps right.

He talks a lot. He knows how to use his tongue when he takes the tip of her breast into his mouth and draws circles around tender flesh. Mikasa gives him sighs and soft moans in exchange, curving into his mouth. Jean’s teeth graze against her skin and his name echoes off of the thin, apartment walls. Mikasa taunts him after every pant, edging him, pushing every button she knows of. He can do better. She thought he was going to make her scream. He can do better than that as Jean ducks his head, keeping count of the line of kisses he leaves down her stomach. He can do better when he spreads her thighs with his palm and takes her in for a second before his lips meet the soft skin on the inside of her leg. Not too close, that’s what she gets for talking too much, as Mikasa bucks her hips up into thin air as his lips are there, but not there at all.

Mikasa only deserves the tip of his tongue against her underwear, pushing between the folds.

Jean takes his time with one, languid lick.

She is writhing by the time he finds it necessary to push the cotton aside, nails biting at the couch cushion looking for something to hold. His hair is a fine substitute and Mikasa pulls and yanks when he drags his mouth away, when he moves too slowly, when he grazes her clit over and over again–a reprimand, a praise and a blessing all in one.  

Mikasa comes with her legs shaking and his name trapped in her throat. Jean resurfaces, biting his lip and passing the back of his hand over his chin, his other hand flat against her hip when she tries to sit up.

“What makes you think I’m done with you?” Jean asks, and it’s not a question that needs a reply as he pushes his jeans off and onto the floor. There are no rules of decency with Mikasa’s legs wide, and Jean’s erection painfully obvious behind his boxers as he helps her out of her shirt and she does the same for him. Mikasa’s fingers waltz along the bare skin of chest, lower and lower until she’s memorizing the dips in his hips and the outline of his cock against the fabric.

Jean stops her with his hand wrapped around her own.

“I didn’t give you permission to touch.”

She likes him like this with his boxers down to his knees and his length sliding up and down her stomach, with his lips against her ear. He could have her here. On her hands and knees. Pull her hair. Make her scream so loud, the neighbors downstairs will be having a cigarette afterwards.

But that’s just him. She should tell him what she wants. Look him in the eye when she does. Mikasa bites her lip for good measure to see sparks kindle in his eyes and whispers that she wants him to fuck her. Feel him inside of her. Make her forget how it feels to walk. Moan in her ear, pull on her hair, touch her. She wants him to touch her.

He tells her to get on her hands and knees while he rummages for lube in his dresser drawer.

She surprises him on all fours, with a hand between her legs, two fingers inside of herself. He helps to ease her fingers out, murmuring “Good girl,” as they glisten in candlelight.

Jean reverts for a second, thinks that they are making love when applies lube gingerly, when he rolls the condom on himself.

He makes up for it when he pushes into her, fist twisted in her hair.

Chin up, Ackerman. Hips straight. Knees steady. She can’t decide whether or not to dig her hands into the cushions or against her own mouth. He knew she would be loud, his own name ringing in his ear.

“More,” she tells him, as he pulls on her hair once more and relishes the feeling of silk between his fingers.

Jean tells her to count her orgasms like saints do with blessings.

Mikasa presses her face into the couch and moans numbers against the surface.

They fuck in the heat of summer with the windows wide open and the city drenched in darkness. They fuck until the wax runs thin and the joints of the couch cry in protest, until he trembles and shakes above her, until she screams his name, until they pray for air-conditioning between heavy breaths and tense, tangled limbs, until he scours for a cloth and cleans her like he loves her. He loves her.

Mikasa twists around and rests her chin on Jean’s chest, watching the way his eyes flutter shut and how he takes every breath. “We should do this again,” he sighs, face flushed, lips pulling up into a smile. She listens to the way his heart murmurs in her ear before she slips out of his grip to stand and blow the last candle out in response.

He makes up for it when he pushes into her, fist twisted in her hair.

Chin up, Ackerman. Hips straight. Knees steady. She can’t decide whether or not to dig her hands into the cushions or against her own mouth. He knew she would be loud, his own name ringing in his ear.

“More,” she tells him, as he pulls on her hair once more and relishes the feeling of silk between his fingers.

Jean tells her to count her orgasms like saints do with blessings.

Mikasa presses her face into the couch and moans numbers against the surface.

They fuck in the heat of summer with the windows wide open and the city drenched in darkness. They fuck until the wax runs thin and the joints of the couch cry in protest, until he trembles and shakes above her, until she screams his name, until they pray for air-conditioning between heavy breaths and tense, tangled limbs, until he scours for a cloth and cleans her like he loves her. He loves her.

Mikasa twists around and rests her chin on Jean’s chest, watching the way his eyes flutter shut and how he takes every breath. “We should do this again,” he sighs, face flushed, lips pulling up into a smile. She listens to the way his heart murmurs in her ear before she slips out of his grip to stand and blow the last candle out in response.


End file.
